Lay Down Letters
by Miroslav
Summary: After the fall of the barricades, Enjolras' mother finds a series of letters her late son wrote to a mysterious R.


Written for the kmeme prompt, "After the fall of the barricades, Enjolras' mother finds a series of letters her late son wrote to a mysterious R," because I apparently wanted to make myself sad.

* * *

"Letters are like wine; if they are sound they ripen with keeping. A man should lay down letters as he does a cellar of wine."

-Samuel Butler

* * *

It was curious, Adélaïde thought, how little she had known of her only child. Though perhaps curious was not the right word.

Standing in the small, cramped room she had not known her son had rented, surrounded by books and pamphlets she had not known he had cared to read, she reached out and touched the strange little bundle of letters on his desk and wondered what further secrets they might reveal.

Her hands trembled as she began to work the knot of the frayed ribbon tying the missives together. Her hands had shaken ever since word had come of her son's death, and they did not seem inclined to stop. When she at last unraveled the knot, her trembling hands knocked half of the letters to the floor in a sudden cascade of white.

One fell upon her shoe and balanced there, absurdly; a queer, terrible laugh escaped her lips as she bent and began to gather up the letters. Each gesture was slow and careful, as though she picked up shards of glass rather than letters. She placed them gently upon the desk once more.

Adélaïde had hoped wistfully, foolishly, that perhaps she had uncovered yet another secret, some sweetheart he had not introduced to her for being an unsuitable match, but when at last she looked upon one of the letters, she recognized her son's handwriting.

Her brow creased in confusion, for why would her son keep his own letters. She began to read, choosing first the missive that had so precariously balanced upon her foot.

_R-_

_Perhaps wine does unlock some magical barrier between your brain and your hand, for you did write five pages longer than is your usual wont, but I think you will find the wine betrays you and turns your writing unreadable. I could not make sense of a word of the latter part of your argument; that is to say, I only understood the first two pages of your letter before it all turned to scribbles a child might make during his first attempt at letters. Put the bottle down and write to me sober if you wish to say your piece. _

Another terrible laugh escaped her even as she found herself with more questions than answers. She read over the letter once more, frowning in bewilderment. Who was this R? She could not make sense of her son's tone, if this was an affectionately mocking exchange between young men or if her son had been genuine in his exasperated words.

She turned to the next letter.

_R-_

_If you and our bold friend must initiate a brawl in the streets, could you refrain from doing so all but next door to a police-station? I would not think that I need explain how we should leave the police to their business and us to our own, and yet it seems I must. _

_Have your injuries been seen to yet, or are you diluting the pain in your usual manner? If it is the former, write us and assure us the blow to your eye was not as severe as our bold friend made it out to be. He is riling up our other friends with dire proclamations that you will lose the eye, which is causing no little dismay in certain corners. _

_If he speaks without exaggeration and you have not had your eye attended, come here at once. Alcohol does not cure all ills, much as you might wish it. _

Adélaïde closed her eyes, for she could picture all too well the face her dear son had made as he'd written this particular letter, the way his brow would have been furrowed in concern, the sideways slant of his mouth as he'd half-frowned at the paper.

So this R seemed to have been one of his friends. Had he been at the barricade? She remembered, dully, how she had read the paper with horrified interest and learned that none had escaped the Chanvrerie barricade alive. She had not known then that her son had numbered among the dead, had read of the uprising with the complacent fascination of one unaffected by the violence. Doubtless this R had been killed at the barricade, and their bold friend along with him.

She bit at her lip, groped for another missive, to read over her son's words and try to make sense of them. Then, a sudden wild anger rising in her, she threw the selected letter. It fluttered in the air before falling slowly to the floor. She threw another, and then a third, and then swept the whole of them off the desk onto the floor.

"Adélaïde."

She ignored the rough, beseeching way Gerald said her name in favor of stomping her foot upon one of the letters and grinding it under her heel.

"Adélaïde."

"I came here for answers, but all I find are more questions," she said, and did not recognize her own broken voice. And why should she? She had not known despair before. All the little pains of life had been small and insignificant before this. "A mother should know her son. A mother should not have to rummage through his effects like a thief in order to learn a little of the man he had become, to try and understand why he died. A mother should-"

Her voice failed her then. She covered her eyes with her hand, pressed her fingers upon her eyes until white spots appeared upon the back of her eyelids, but the tears slid down her cheeks nonetheless.

She did not move for a long moment, not even when Gerald took her by the shoulders and pressed a kiss upon her brow. At last, she took her hand away, blinked the tears from her eyes. "Well then," she said quietly as pained incomprehension etched further lines upon Gerald's dear face. "Let me be a thief. I will take what I can, however I may."

"Adélaïde," Gerald said again.

She attempted a smile, a vain attempt to banish the helplessness from his voice and expression, to offer him some small comfort. She was certain her smile was a terrible, ghastly thing, but Gerald did not flinch from it, only took her still-trembling hand in his and squeezed it gently.

"I have some letters he wrote," she told him. "I suspect that they only offer more questions, but I find that I will seize the most meager of scraps and learn all I can."

_It is all we have left_, she did not say, but it hung in the air between them nonetheless as Gerald's hand dropped away from hers. He slowly stooped with the careful movements of a man who has received a terrible wound from which he will not recover. He picked up one of the letters, crouched there staring for some time.

"Will you read them, my dear?" he asked, and his voice barely trembled. He did not meet her eyes. "I left my glasses behind."

She took the letter he offered her. It was not one she had read, she realized as her eyes skimmed over the first lines.

"R," she said, and still did not recognize her own voice, the hoarse, hopeless sound of it, "I am glad to receive your letter, though you might have mentioned our friend's predicament first and the details of your latest boxing match second. I find-"


End file.
